Demon Lover (23 page)

It didn’t make sense. Chayne Younger was a puzzle.

And I hate him, she thought in desperation.
I swear to God I do. I love him, and for that most of all, I hate him.

The door of cardon poles opened and Chayne came in. As an icy calm settled over her, masking the turmoil inside, Julie whirled to face him.

"You haven’t eaten all day," he said with typical abruptness. "Don’t you feel well?"

She couldn’t help the spasm of pain that knifed through her. His tone of voice, his face, his eyes were once again hard and impersonal, the way they’d been during those first few hours in the camper. They’d come so far since then. In the last twenty–four hours since that traumatic and revealing episode on the beach, he’d seemed almost carefree. Younger, lighter…even happy. She’d begun to think—to hope—she might be able to persuade him to abort the raid. But that hope was gone now. His face was closed and dark, his eyes cold flames.

El Demonio Garzo was back.

Julie cleared her throat and answered in a low voice, "No, as a matter of fact, I don’t feel well."

He studied her impassively. "I hope you’re not too sick to travel."

"Travel?" Her heart gave a startled lurch.

"You’re coming with us," he said flatly. "If I leave you here, you’ll try something foolish before our dust has settled." His mouth twisted in that old, humorless smile. "Besides, you might come in handy as a hostage if things go bad."

"I see." Julie swallowed against iron bands of pain. "And when you don’t need me anymore—as a hostage——what then?"

There was a moment of silence, and then he swore briefly and violently. "Don’t look at me like that! What do you expect from me? I told you I’d keep you alive. I promised you wouldn’t be hurt." His voice sounded gravelly; she wished he would clear his throat. "Damn it, Julie. That’s all I ever promised you."

Julie nodded. "I know," she said painfully, and went on looking at him.

Silence hummed and crackled between them. And somehow, almost imperceptibly, Chayne’s face changed, softened, became human flesh instead of carved wood.

"Damn it, Julie," he whispered.

"Would it—" She swallowed and started again. "Would it do any good to beg you to stop this?"

"I can’t stop it, Julie." He sounded tired.

Her throat was tight with tension; her jaws felt stiff and creaky. "You don’t have to be a part of it."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?" She would
not
cry. "Just tell me—"

"I can’t explain." His voice was wooden. "I’m sorry."

She drew a long quivering breath and closed her eyes. It was her last shot, and if it failed, nothing mattered anyway. She had nothing to lose. In a barely audible voice that seemed far too loud she said, "Would it make any difference at all if I told you I love you?"

Silence again. And unendurable tension. Her emotions were strung perilously on a thin elastic filament of self–control that was being stretched beyond all reasonable limits. What would happen to her reason and sanity if it snapped?

She had to open her eyes finally, if only to break that awful suspense, and when she did she released a soft, involuntary gasp. She had caught Chayne by surprise, and in that one unguarded instant his eyes were transparent, the way they’d been the day he’d almost killed the rattlesnake beside the cistern. And as it had that day, the brief glimpse inside him both exhilarated and terrified her.

But it was only an instant. Chayne turned away, breaking the silence. "I wish I could say it did," he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck as if it hurt him. "I wish I could make you understand that even if I could opt out—and I can’t—my absence won’t keep the attack on the Expo from happening. Get that through your head once and for all, damn it! There is nothing—repeat,
nothing
—
you
can do to change things. I told you I’d save your life. When it’s too late for you to get in the way I’ll see that you get back home. That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry."

"Thank you," Julie said stiffly, pride dripping coldly from her words. "You’ve done more than enough."

"Oh, for—" He jerked his head up. "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

There was danger in the soft steel of his voice, but Julie ignored it. "This has worked out pretty well for you, hasn’t it? In exchange for my life, you’ve had someone to warm your bed for you. A pretty inexpensive whore, wouldn’t you say?" She saw him wince as if she’d struck him.

Under his breath he whispered what sounded like "…never know how expensive."

Little blue currents of anger glittered in his eyes as he smiled and stepped closer. Her heart had begun a drum roll, but she stubbornly held her ground. "If that’s how you see yourself," he drawled softly, reaching without haste to stroke the skin on her upper arms, "then I guess that’s what you are. But,
Guerita,
don’t forget who started this."

He held her arms in a light grasp, exerting no pressure at all, and yet she yearned toward him. Incredible, but in spite of her anger and grief, her rejection of all he was and meant to do, he still compelled her…drew her…excited her. In spite of everything, she wanted him.

And he knew it—oh, he knew it. His lashes dropped to veil smoky eyes as he watched her, a sad, bitter smile clinging to his lips. Slowly, watching her all the while, he lowered his head.

His kiss plunged deep into her; she felt it like a knife in her heart. His hands moved to her exposed rib cage, not to draw her close but to use the space between their bodies to tease and torment her. His hands drew exquisite patterns over her skin, touching lightly, delicately, raising goose bumps and silvery shivers of desire while his mouth and tongue, with a deep, pulsing rhythm, simulated sexual possession.

When at last he withdrew, Julie was shaking so hard she could barely stand. She swayed drunkenly, and Chayne’s hands tightened convulsively on her waist. For a moment he glared down at her, his eyes demon bright, and then he muttered under his breath and pulled her roughly into his arms.

Julie’s cry of denial was smothered by his mouth. He kissed her deeply, holding her head with his hand, and then drew back and said thickly, "No?" And as she began desperately to shake her head, he claimed her mouth again…and again.

It was a conflagration, the kind that can have only one consequence. Where she found the strength to break away from him, she never knew, but suddenly she was free, shaking her head and breathing in frantic gulps.

"No—please. Oh,
please
don’t. I don’t want you—"

"The hell you don’t!"

"All right, I do! But I don’t. I want you. You make me want you; I can’t help myself. That’s what’s so unforgivable. You know how I feel—how I must be feeling right now—and yet you’d do this to me? Damn you, you take away my will! If you make love to me tonight, so help me, Chayne, I’ll never forgive you. Never."

"That’s crazy. You want me, and I need—"

"No, it’s not crazy. Don’t you have any feelings at all? Oh God, Chayne—if you have any compassion for me at all, you’ll just leave. Leave…me…alone!"

"Any
compassion?"
For a long moment he held her, breathing raggedly, and then he swore savagely and thrust her from him. "All right, I’ll
leave
you
alone
."

His words came in angry spurts as he snatched up a canvas satchel and began throwing odds and ends into it—his razor and shaving cream, a change of clothes, cigarettes. Finally he grabbed a pillow from the bed, tucked it under one arm and turned to where Julie still stood hugging herself and shaking.

"I’ll wake you," he said in clipped, angry tones. "We leave at first light." He allowed himself a thin smile. "Somehow or other I don’t think you’d manage to get up that early without help."

"Thank you." Julie cleared her throat and repeated it with a deeper meaning. "
Thank you
."

"Yeah. Well, sleep well."

"Chayne—"

"What?"

"Where will you go?"

"Wherever the others are, I suppose, where else?"

"Won’t you—will it get you in trouble, not spending the night with me?"

He gave a short bark of ironic laughter. "It’ll probably get me respect, depriving myself of a woman’s company the night before an important mission. These guys are fanatics— I’m guessing they practice total abstinence. My stock ought to rise considerably.
Buenas noches, Guerita
."

D
AWN’S EARLY LIGHT
was something Julie appreciated only when it heralded the end of a long graveyard shift. Dressing in chilly darkness, shivering while roosters crowed and others slept, had never been among her favorite pastimes, and it didn’t help having a dangerous–looking man in a dark turtle–neck watching her every move.

"You don’t have to wait for me. I’m up, for God’s sake," she muttered crossly. "What do you think I’m going to do? Crawl back into bed?"

Chayne drew deeply on his cigarette and didn’t answer. The glowing tip of the cigarette flared briefly, casting sinister shadows across the planes of his face and giving his eyes an unearthly glitter. Julie shuddered and finished dressing in silence.

"Ready?" Chayne asked when she had folded the last of her borrowed clothing into a pile and was looking abstractedly around the tiny hut that had become more home than prison. She nodded, and he dropped a windbreaker across her shoulders. "Let’s go."

Outside in the growing daylight Rita waited with a thermos of coffee. She thrust it into Julie’s arms, then hugged her impulsively.

"Adios, Julie," she whispered. "
Vaya con Dios."

"Thank you," Julie whispered back. "For everything. I left the clothes in the hut. Please thank Linda for me."

"I will, I will. Don’t worry. Good–bye, Julie."

"Good–bye." She couldn’t think why she should feel like crying.

The camper was already loaded, its motor running. Chayne handed her into the cab and took his place behind the wheel. A short distance away Pepe and Geraldo stood talking; at a short tap on the horn from Chayne, Pepe broke away and came over at a brisk trot, giving Julie a swift, appraising glance as he climbed in beside her. Geraldo moved to his wife’s side and slipped an arm around her waist.

"Geraldo’s not coming?" Julie asked Chayne in a nervous undertone.

He gave her a sideways glance and put the truck in gear. "There wasn’t room," he grunted, leaving unspoken the obvious answer—that she had taken Geraldo’s place.

At least, Julie thought grimly, if nothing else I’ve done that much for Rita.

The sky was turning pastel pink and mauve and blue as the camper growled over the steep grade, leaving behind the Sea of Cortez, gilded by a rising sun and shining like all the treasures of El Dorado.

* * *

Once again Julie managed to be asleep when they crossed the border. She had stayed awake through the long, hot day of grueling travel over bumpy and winding desert tracks, through forests of cardon and weird, twisting cirio trees, dense thickets of cholla and mesquite, and across the endless mud flats of the Colorado River delta. By late afternoon they were passing the cultivated fields and vineyards near Mexicali, where the road was in fairly good condition. After a brief meal and rest stop in Mexicali they were off again, whizzing along on paved roads, and it was then that the monotony finally got to her. She kept jerking her head upright and peering owlishly through the windshield into the sunset, but it was a lost cause. The next time she woke it was dark, and her cheek was resting on Chayne’s shoulder.

The camper had stopped; it was the sensation of abruptly arrested motion that had wakened her.

After one frozen moment of complete disorientation she realized they were stopped at a traffic light, and an instant later registered the fact that the street signs were in English. They were home!

There were people here, other cars, stores, telephones. Police. What if she could cause an accident, or create a disturbance that would attract the attention of a passing patrol car? Pepe was driving. Could she bump his arm…pull the keys from the ignition…grab the wheel?

As if in answer, Chayne’s arm tightened around her shoulders like a steel band. He must have felt the tension in her muscles.

"Don’t even try it," he whispered against her hair. "I’ll knock you out if I have to."

Julie forced herself to relax, remembering only too vividly the single blow to the chin with which he had so effortlessly neutralized her once before. She began to watch for landmarks and signs, trying to get her bearings. And she soon realized with a surge of excitement and renewed determination that she knew where she was.

She’d been through this little town in the plateau country northeast of San Diego many times, and had once even checked out a report of illegals working on a horse ranch near here. But Ramona was such a small town, just beginning to feel the pressures of urban development; in another minute they’d be beyond its stoplights and fast–food restaurants, its gas stations and phone booths. If she could only get them to stop.

She began to fidget and squirm. "Chayne—"

"What?"

"Do you suppose we could—I mean, how much longer will it be before we stop? I really need to, um…I’m sorry. The coffee, I guess."

"We’ll be stopping in a little while. Just a few minutes, as a matter of fact."

"I don’t know if I can wait."

"You’ll have to," Chayne said coldly. "You didn’t really think I’d risk stopping in town, did you?"

Julie subsided, reluctantly—and momentarily—conceding defeat, and went back to studying the road and moonlit countryside with avid concentration.

Several miles north of town they left the highway and turned onto a country road that wound uphill past open pastures studded with spreading oak trees. Here and there a light marked a ranch house nestled in a sheltered valley. This was cattle country.

The camper slowed and turned, rattled across a cattle guard, then lurched up a rutted track that ran alongside a creek. Pepe finally stopped beside a broken wood fence, set the brake and got out, stretching and shaking his legs one at a time.